


Lullaby

by Pseudonym-Synonym (CrimsonEnigma)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Cygate - Freeform, M/M, This has probably been done already, but I'm still sorry not sorry, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:17:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonEnigma/pseuds/Pseudonym-Synonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyclonus sings one final song to Tailgate</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> This scenario is a result of Cyclonus fulfilling his threat to kill Whirl on Luna-1

Tailgate didn’t have long left to live.

They hadn’t bothered keeping him under the death clock anymore. The minibot already knew that he was dying; he didn’t need another reminder. Neither of them did.

Ratchet had already concluded his final check hours ago. In the labs, Swerve and a few other crew members were actively searching for a last-minute cure, but Cyclonus knew that it was futile.

He shouldn’t have hoped.

Cyclonus shuttered his optics, keeping his voice steady as he sang. The words rolled off of his glossa, tender and uncharacteristically soft, biting back his regret and shame. He had failed Tailgate. He had wanted to save him, had wanted to protect him, and look at him now? Tailgate was dying from something that Cyclonus had no defense against. He couldn’t slice Cybercrosis away like infected mesh. He couldn’t shoot it. He couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t save Tailgate.

But Tailgate would be heralded as a hero. No one would question his origins as a waste disposal bot in the face of true bravery, not when he had genuinely saved over half of the remaining Cybertronian race. Tailgate would finally have the reputation he always wanted. But he wouldn’t be alive to see it. And no one would ever know Tailgate like Cyclonus did. They wouldn’t know how his visor lit up whenever curiosity filled the mech with wonder and awe. They would never know the way his vocalizer would skip when he was excited or nervous (and oh, how nervous he could become). They wouldn’t know how a little minibot warmed a militant’s dead spark with endless patience and unwavering affection. No one could know Tailgate like Cyclonus did.

And what was his newfound life without Tailgate? Cyclonus found his thoughts selfishly pestering him. A week ago, he had never tried to imagine his life without Tailgate. The tiny thing had wormed his way into Cyclonus’ routine so subtly, that it seemed almost natural and protecting the minibot had become instinct. But now, what would he protect? He would be alone. Tailgate was the only mech on the entirety of the Lost Light that enjoyed his sour company.

Even Whirl had been better than most mechs. But Whirl was dead. Cyclonus saw to that with a fulfilled oath and a firm shove.

Cyclonus would be alone.

He choked on the words in his mouth and cleared his throat. His optics burned and he wrestled with a wave of rage and self-disgust. He was selfish. Tailgate was dying on the medical slab, and Cyclonus had lost himself in his own sorrow. He didn’t deserve such a soft-sparked mech. He had never deserved Tailgate.

“C-Cyclonus…?” intakes wheezed quietly.

The jet snapped his head up and scooted to the edge of his chair. “I’m here,” he affirmed.

Tailgate’s hand reached out, trembling and blind. Cyclonus clasped it gently, nearly wincing at the cold metal.

“That s-song…” Tailgate’s optics flickered. “You’ve never sung th-that one before… What is it about?”

Cyclonus rubbed the little hand with his thumb, distantly wondering if Tailgate could still feel it. “It’s an old ballad about a soldier and his lover,” he explained quietly. “The soldier was called to war. Before he departed, he promised to survive and return to his lover again.”

Tailgate shifted, intakes rattling, as he tried to glance towards the jet. “D-did the soldier survive?”

“No,” Cyclonus brushed his flat lips against Tailgate’s cool knuckles. The minibot’s visor flickered again. “But as his lover clutched the death notification to his chest, he made another promise. He vowed to meet the soldier again in the Allspark.”

The minibot’s tiny fingers curled in Cyclonus’ palm. “I h-hope that they did… I think I’d l-like that.”

Cyclonus didn’t know how to respond, nor did he think his vocalizer would allow him to. His throat was tight. His optics burned. He tried not to clench Tailgate’s hand. He refused to allow his desperation to show. It would only distress Tailgate further.

“Cyclonus…? Would you…would you hold me?” Tailgate whispered, static poisoning his words. “And that song… It’s a sad song, but I-I think I like it… W-would y—FFZZTTHCH!!!”

Cyclonus settled his free hand over Tailgate’s facemask and stood. The minibot was wearing out his defeated vocalizer by talking too much.

Attempting to keep the tremble out of his frame, Cyclonus gently maneuvered Tailgate so that he could lie on the med slab. He pulled the minibot—too cold, too light—against his chest and gently stroked the smaller mech’s back. Without further prompt, he sang the song again.

Tailgate pressed himself weakly into the jet, his plating rattling hollowly, his system too tired to even give him warnings anymore. Cyclonus could feel the weariness. Still, he sang. His lips brushed against the top of Tailgate’s helm with every word, his voice filled the empty bay with a gentle timbre. He wasn’t able to save Tailgate, but he could at least provide this scarce comfort.

He sang, even as Tailgate began convulsing in his arms. He sang as the minibot’s joints seized and sparked. He sang as the visor finally went dark. He sang until all that was left was a shallow rattle within Tailgate’s chest.

“Cyclonus…? I th-think—FFTTZZ—that th-this is it…” the minibot said weakly. The jet finally stopped singing. “I’m r-really tired… FFFTZZZCK—W-will you be here when I wake u-up?”

Cyclonus’ spark clenched and stalled. With trembling fingers, he tilted Tailgate’s face to his own and pressed his lips over the facemask. “Yes,” he rasped. “Sleep now…”

Tailgate’s motor whined and guttered. Something clanked within his chassis. His vocalizer popped again before the final words breathed from failing life. “I w-wanna see you again… Cyclonus, let’s—FFZZZZZZ—let’s meet in the Allspark…”

Cyclonus nodded, coolant streaming from his optics and catching in the jagged slashes on his faceplate. “I promise…”

The jet repeated the last stanza of the song. Halfway through, Tailgate’s chest plates clicked apart. The sound, a harsh counterpoint to the gentle song, was distant and muffled in his audials. The minibot’s spark chamber cracked open and the little light fluttered weakly, reassuringly, spreading one last EM field laced with endless love and affection. It disappeared in a blink, leaving behind only an empty shell and a devastated jet.

Cyclonus clenched Tailgate’s cold frame close, unwilling to let go, unwilling to look down and acknowledge that the minibot was gone. He finally let his tears fall freely, spattering against the graying helm. He allowed his voice to waver and shake and shudder.

He finished the song.

He roared into the empty medbay, deaf to his own anguish.

He was alone.

But he would persevere.

He made a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> AHAHAHAHA YOU MAY SHOOT ME NOW


End file.
